


found in translation

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, Denial of Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: Because at this very same second in which he spends staring at the slim, curved back of Hinata Shouyou, Black Jackal’s bright, new star, dressed in a skirt more befitting a twenty-year-old pop idol, Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest lie is bashing him upside the hit with a fat baseball bat.You. Did. Not. Get. Over. Your. Fucking. Crush. You. Stupid. Fucking. Bitch, the bat says.Kuroo Tetsurou has had feelings for Hinata Shouyou for a long time, and it takes for the peeling of stockings to reveal just how mutual they are.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 164





	found in translation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KennedyDreyar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KennedyDreyar/gifts).



The least convenient time Kuroo Tetsurou, aged a very comfortable twenty-seven, expects to face his own decrepit feelings is in the middle of a rather quiet evening, which is growing-rowdier-by-the-second due to the presence of very exuberant, very delighted athletes he is happy to call friends.

Fucking feelings and all that they entail are the literal bane of his existence.

No one ever gets a feeling and feels happy, or relieved, for it. Instead, they are horrified, aghast, shocked, and utterly disgusted by it, by themselves, and by the endless possibilities the future holds.

All feelings are terrible. But the feelings Tetsurou is feeling specifically are the most terrible. Feelings of... affection.

He sits in the midst of men he’s known personally or through the papers (and now, work) and tries to stifle the bubbling pot in his chest.

Except this feeling has been cooking for half a decade, and it leaves a sour taste on his tongue, even after all those beers he’d chugged to show how good of a spirit he is, throwing back a pint or two as if he isn’t waking up every morning before the sun to make an unhappy commute to a job that is eventually satisfying but currently spiritually suffocating. Because in the sincerest and brightest moments of his life, Tetsurou has known about this _thing_ that rots him, and recognized how futile it is. How it would bear him _no_ good news. Would only bring an endless stream of maladies to his very front door.

He recognizes _it_ as the end of life, boring but peaceful, as it is, but he has also made a promise to never again acknowledge it. Leave it under in the bin that is his heart. Keep it hidden just long enough for him to fool himself that he feels absolutely nothing.

But that is a lie. And he’d never been that good of a liar. And like every lie he’d ever told, no matter how small—as small as lying to Kenma that being a setter would be a piece of cake, or how big, that every person who worked just hard enough would win, it blows up in his face.

Like the kick Kenma had so gracefully delivered to Tetsurou’s shin on graduation day, muttering a quick, “That’s for the lie all of those years ago. I sweat a lot thanks to you, Kuro,” which had made Tetsurou’s eyes fill with tears. Not of pain, but rather of pride. He’d made Kenma emote. That was enough repayment. He’d made his best friend fall for something so hard that Kenma had allowed it to ruin his peace. Tetsurou had been happy, then.

But deep down, Tetsurou recognized that the lie had been just that: a fabrication. And he’s known all along that every lie he tells comes back to bite him in the ass tenfold. Even those he tells himself. Like:

 _I don’t need to have a day off._ Lie.

 _I’m_ happy _to work on my birthday._ Lie.

 _The brilliance of those around me does_ not _make me feel like a yawning pit of_ rotten _jealousy._ Fucking lie.

And this is his moment of retribution.

Because at this very same second in which he spends staring at the slim, curved back of Hinata Shouyou, Black Jackal’s bright, new star, dressed in a skirt more befitting a twenty-year-old pop idol, Kuroo Tetsurou’s biggest lie is bashing him upside the hit with a fat baseball bat.

You. Did. Not. Get. Over. Your. Fucking. Crush. You. Stupid. Fucking. Bitch, the bat says.

Every inch of him feels the ache. His teeth. His ears. His cheeks. His ass. His legs (mainly because sitting on the floor for long periods of time now apparently numbs his limbs; because he is—drumroll, please—old). His hands, especially, because he is currently sitting on them.

Otherwise, he might just simply reach out and... touch. That was a no.

There will be no touching Hinata Shouyou tonight.

Or any night.

Not as long as Tetsurou has his head screwed tight atop his shoulders. And no matter how empty his head looks—he admits that having a rooster’s head wasn’t the flattering look he’d fooled himself into believing it was, but still, hair has more muscle memory than Tetsurou has ever expected it to—his mind is his greatest possession.

Except said mind is undergoing a coup that very moment.

Every portion of his brain, which should be churning out important and significant thoughts like _hm, it sure would be nice to have some grilled mackerel for breakfast tomorrow_ or _it might rain next week so check if the umbrella is with you at all times—this suit is expensive_ , is now fixed on the very one topic of: Hinata Shouyou has the kind of ass for which Tetsurou’s hands were made to _grab_.

Maybe grab isn’t an adequate word.

 _Fondle_ , perhaps, but it brings along a crude image that Tetsurou would rather unsee.

He considers _squeeze_ but that infers that he might do it once, when Tetsurou would like to do it twice, thrice, and a million times, before he sees himself ever reaching true elation and satiation. So, no.

 _Caress_ is old school.

 _Touch,_ however, is classic.

Then, sadly, with a grim expression to which absolutely no one is paying attention, Tetsurou realizes: all of the above.

He wishes to absolutely humiliate himself for a brief, if not erotic, squeeze of Hinata Shouyou’s ass.

“Are the stockings really necessary?” says Hinata, whose legs are currently running Tetsurou’s sanity through a blender.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” slurs a very cheerful Bokuto. Normally, Tetsurou would want to high-five his best friend, proudly announcing that he is his homie for life, but these aren’t normal circumstances.

This is life or death (of Tetsurou’s cock and heart and everything in between), and it means he wants to strangle the life out of Bokuto.

Bokuto looks utterly unaware of the riot in Tetsurou’s mind, the very planning of his murder—though it isn’t a very thought-out plan seeing as seventy percent of Tetsurou’s mind is occupied with the more important ordeal of: What do Hinata’s legs taste like? Do they have a lingering salty taste from the constant work-out? Or soapy from the shower? Hinata clearly took one after their shocking and yet arousing win against the Adlers because his ever-bright hair is a shade darker, and Tetsurou’s hands tingle—most likely the numbing sensation escaping his skin than anything, really, but he is convinced his whole body is turning against him—wondering how it might feel to squeeze a strand between two fingers, or loving rub a towel over Hinata’s head, scolding him like a spouse might.

Holy shit. He is officially imagining their _married_ life.

He needs to see a therapist. ASAP.

“Why not, you look nice, Shouyou-kun,” says Atsumu, and there is the tiniest hint of admiration. And small as it is, it is still present, which sets Tetsurou’s blood to boil. Irrational and uncalled for, really, but he feels impossibly mad at Miya Atsumu for occupying the same… _universe_ as Hinata Shouyou, while _he_ is reduced to _smarmy-looking guy trying to scam Hinata._

He is no such thing.

Smarmy-looking just happens to come with the suit.

Scamming Hinata would only be true if harboring ardent feelings of deep respect and fondness for a man alongside whom he’d grown up is considered a scam.

Tetsurou thinks it was Kenma’s own curiosity that made him think of Hinata at first.

Someone formidable, indomitable, talented, and shrewd enough to draw Tetsurou’s best friend’s attention had to be someone great.

Yet after that first, and last, official match, Tetsurou didn’t stop watching Karasuno. Didn’t stop watching _Hinata_. At first, it had been more of that curiosity, but Kenma and Hinata never played again, both teams never crossing paths as perfectly as they had that year at Nationals. 

Then, he’d had to sit himself down and ask, very sternly, just why he carves out an hour or two to catch a flame soar in the sky of a stadium Tetsurou had only seen once?

The answer had come in a snippet of an interview. Karasuno’s first years, now seniors, grown when they’d once seemed so young and full of potential. Sitting in a bar after work, Tetsurou had smirked and pointed at Tsukishima Kei’s stoic look as the reel showed him off, titled him a vicious middle blocker, and said, “That’s my disciple.”

His coworker had smiled and said, “Wow, Kuroo-san, you really love volleyball, don’t you?”

But he was wrong. Tetsurou wasn’t in love with _volleyball_ itself. He was in love with the way guys like Bokuto love it, all consuming. The way people like Tsukishima Kei, polite and infuriating all wrapped in one, love it, reluctantly, like the sport is a venomous snake that could turn against him but to which he can’t stop returning.

But it is one boy—now a _man_ with a body properly honed to strain at the seams as it tries to contain the _sun_ that he is, and it is he whose love by which Tetsurou is most fascinated.

He doesn’t want to understand it like he understands Bokuto.

Nor does he want to reinforce it like he’d told himself he had with Tsukki.

He wants to _become_ it with Hinata Shouyou.

Because the way Hinata looks at a volleyball feels a lot like adoration. Passion. Adulatory. Insatiability. Hinata doesn’t look anywhere near full of volleyball yet.

And a part of Tetsurou wanted to be a volleyball. For a very long time. When Tetsurou notices, it depresses him. Because he’s always thought of himself as _smarter_ than this. Really. He does, but he simply hadn’t known that he doesn’t want the passion but rather… the man.

The man who looks very, very alluring in a black pencil skirt, a pink, short-sleeved, fitted sweater, and almost-sheer black stockings. Hinata looks nothing like a girl. He is very much a guy in a skirt, but that doesn’t stop Tetsurou’s neck from heating up or his heart from pounding in his ears.

He feels parched no matter how much water he chugs, and he’s beginning to sweat so hard that it drips uncomfortably down his back. He panics that it might make its way to his ass; that the second he rises from his seat; everyone might think he’s pissed himself.

 _No_ , he’ll tell everyone, _I just lust so hard after the man into whose mouth I beg to shove my tongue that I have attempted to drown you all in my sweat_.

Gross.

He is the scum of the earth.

But he can’t stop staring.

He’s supposed to be nothing but a spectator as the team has its celebratory drinks, but that was two stops ago. Now, the group of six sits in a cramped living room of one of the MSBY members, he can’t remember who, too tipsy to make any good decisions or remember them in the morning—or so Tetsurou hopes in the case of _ass sweat_ coming true, and they’ve descended into a game of Truth or Dare.

Tetsurou has no clue who’d come up with the dare or the outfit Hinata had been dared to wear.

All he knows that it is unraveling his mind very, very slowly. 

He loathes to admit it, but he finds the shape of Hinata very charming. Worthy of worship wouldn’t even be an exaggeration at this point. He would like to sit Hinata in his lap and very gently touch him across his shoulders and that soft, soft sweater, flip his skirt over until it unveiled Hinata’s strong, sturdy thighs, wrap them around his hips, and bring Hinata’s face to his reverent mouth. He wants to let his tongue play along the rim of Hinata’s lips, find an opening—with a gasp or a moan, he isn’t picky, then delve into that mouth and find just what keeps Hinata burning so bright.

Tetsurou wouldn’t even mind burning up in the process.

“—don’t you?”

Someone is asking him a question, but Tetsurou has to peel his eyes off a red-faced Hinata—though it isn’t shame Tetsurou detects in his expression, and says, “Excuse me?”

It’s Sakusa. “I was saying that it’s getting a little too wild,” he repeats, patient and kind, which aren’t words Tetsurou would use to describe Sakusa, but the man is really nice.

“Uh, just a little,” Tetsurou says, a soft chuckle covering the fact that it isn’t wild enough. He worries Sakusa might read the gaping inferno of desire in his eyes, his insides painted red with desire for his teammate.

“Nah, this is nothing!” Bokuto says, and with a shaky hand—the man has to stop drinking—plays a song. “Come on, Shouyou, dance.”

“This is sick!” Atsumu squeals but Tetsurou sees the way Miya leans forward a little, sharp interest belying his outrage.

It’s a soft pop song, something western and totally foreign to Tetsurou—not that he listens to music. He prefers the illusion of the headphones than the ruckus of sounds. But this song is nice. It brings forth images of grinding hips, sweaty hands gliding up and down thighs, hiking up skirts.

He pulls at the collar of his shirt, his tie forgotten in his suit jacket, and waits.

Hinata doesn’t look at all perturbed, a small smile on the corner of his lips as he begins to dance. But it isn’t the seductive swaying hips that Tetsurou has been expecting. Rather, it’s a silly hip jut, left and right, arms flailing and head thrown back, face twisted into a goofy expression. And the room explodes with laughter, even Tetsurou’s, despite the disappointment.

They move on pretty quickly, but before it’s Tetsurou’s turn—he doesn’t trust his coordination to accept a dare or his tongue to choose to spill some truth, he dips to the bathroom. There, however, he finds Hinata Shouyou reaching back and fumbling with his skirt.

Tetsurou pauses at the threshold.

“Oh—Kuroo-san—” _Tetsurou_ , he dreams of Hinata calling him. _Shouyou_ , he imagines, wouldn’t even think of dropping the honorifics. But Tetsurou catches sight of a glint. Something not exactly sharp, but on the verge of being devastatingly perceptive in Hinata’s eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“It’s all right. I just have to get out of these stockings—they’re stifling—but I can’t figure out this zipper.”

Then, out of absolutely no sense of preservation, Tetsurou says, “Want me to help?”

Hinata straightens up, draws up to his full height, and it’s a small bathroom, really, and there’s nowhere for Tetsurou to be but mere inches away, looking down into ember eyes, burning coals, and he’s but a lowly marshmallow, toasty and too comfortable from the drinks.

“Sure,” Hinata says after an infinity.

Relief wrecks Tetsurou’s body.

He finds the zipper pretty quickly but he takes his sweet time pushing it down, the fabric opening to reveal tanned skin, so much of it that it hurts Tetsurou’s teeth how hard he grinds them. He is past the point of touch—he wants to bite.

“There you go,” he says, voice wrecked.

Hinata keeps looking at him, hasn’t stopped, really, since Tetsurou offered his innocent help.

“You—Kuroo-san—Could you help with this as well?” This refers to the stockings.

The air grows thin but he nods, sweat drips from his chin, and he watches Hinata lift one foot, rests it on the closed lid of the toilet, eyes stinging Tetsurou. But he’s helpless.

He should combust like a supernova the second he puts his hands on Hinata’s thigh, but shockingly, he doesn’t. Instead, his hands are very calm as he begins to peel off the stockings, exposing a tanned, lightly furred thigh. He stops once he’s at Hinata’s knee. His tongue dries at the thought of running along that kneecap.

God. He’s deprived.

“The other one too—” before he finishes his question, Tetsurou is pulled forward, a palm—surprisingly and yet not at all—big and warm closes around his neck, and he’s falling forward into an ocean of desire, of love, of Hinata’s eyes, and curling lips, and God, he tastes so good. Like _sake_ and _apricots_ and _him_.

They are intertwined, arms crossing over necks, hands cupping hips, then thighs, pulling higher, Hinata gasping at the way Tetsurou gently slots their hips together, back pressed to the bathroom door. The light is bright behind them, but Tetsurou’s eyes see nothing but flaming hair, a pink mouth, a flickering tongue that plays his tune, and a stretch of skin he wants to devour.

Fuck it all. Fuck suppressing the only thing he’s ever wanted. Fuck the world if it means he gets to have this. Have a sun in the palms of his hands, kissing him, a smile carved in his heart.

“I—” Hinata says as Tetsurou kisses down his neck, moans when he takes a nip of a brown throat, “I thought—you wouldn’t— _Nnnngh!_ ” The groan shocks them both, but emboldened, Tetsurou slips a hand across Hinata’s thigh but doesn’t quite cup him though he feels him, hard and thick and his mouth waters at the thought of getting on his knees for Hinata.

“Kuroo-san,” Hinata says.

“Say my name, _Shouyou,_ ” Tetsurou says, emboldened by the taste of Hinata’s tongue.

Hinata’s cheeks turn impossibly redder, fetching with his complexion, and he turns his face up to Tetsurou and says, voice strong and sweet, “Tetsurou-san, kiss me lots, please.”

With a groan—soon stifled and bitten and swallowed—Tetsurou closes the distance between them and gives Hinata Shouyou, sun-reincarnate, the unsurprising center of Tetsurou’s universe, a kiss so slow it threatens to break him. But that’s all right. Tetsurou wouldn’t mind being torn apart by teeth and fingernails. As long as it was Shouyou putting him back together.

Maybe having feelings for ever doesn’t hurt. Not when they translate to this. To love. Love has a place here.

“I’ve wanted you to kiss for so, so long, Tetsurou-san,” Shouyou whispers into the quiet aftermath. Tetsurou’s hand is resting on Shouyou’s naked thigh, feeling sated and still aching in confusing conjunction.

He has Shouyou’s head in his lap, fingers running through auburn locks, mind swimming with questions.

“Do you…Do you still want to be kissed?” he asks, unsure if he wants to hear an answer besides yes.

But brilliant eyes look up at him, and a big smile cuts Shouyou’s face in half. “Yes,” the man Tetsurou is deeply in love with says.

Relief is a shocking thing, and it steals his breath, until he can do nothing but gape at Shouyou who asks, “Do you want to kiss _me_ some more?”

 _Oh, darling,_ Tetsurou thinks, kissing is the mere gate of the palace of things I want to do _for_ you.

For now, however, he gives Shouyou a smirk so familiar—and sets the red in Shouyou’s cheeks a little brighter—and says, “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely Kennedy. Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it!


End file.
